a rapunzel's greed
by alice hattercandy
Summary: AU. He is a writer tormented by sleepless nights, haunted by his own creation. What will he do when he meets face to face with the nightmare he has created?
1. a mad man

There.

A voice.

:

_Can you be my sanctuary?_

_Can you wipe the sadness in my eye?_

_Can you heal my broken wing?_

_Can you…_

:

Tired brown eyes opened.

…_hear me?_

"Damn it."

With a tired glare, he stared up to the familiar ceiling. Another curse rolled off his tongue, and he closed his eyes, rubbing the closed lids tiredly. With a shaky sigh, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and distractedly wondered why the fuck his sweat felt so goddamned cold.

He breathed deeply to calm his violently pounding heart, the scowl on his face deepening as he remembered his dream.

"Fucking dream." And fucking voice and fucking song.

Can't they leave him alone? With both palms, he rubbed his face. "I need a fucking sleep, damn it." He felt tired, and pathetic, and angry and… really, _really _tired. When was the last time he slept? He could not remember. Suddenly, he missed his high school days. Despite Kiego's annoying presence and occasional fist fights he had had and won, he was able to sleep. He was able to sleep _for real_. With no dreams, no voices, no songs ringing in his ears. He _can _sleep when he was younger.

But not anymore.

Because he kept hearing _it_. That voice, that song. He kept seeing _that _face, those eyes. He… _Oh fuck. Just stop the fucking dreams and let me fucking sleep!_ He exhaled and stopped rubbing his face. Last time he checked, it was five in the morning.

With a grunt, he rolled to his side.

A hand touched the back of his head.

:

He stiffened, and a cold shudder convulsed his spine.

Fingers played with his spiky locks.

Another batch of ice-cold beads of sweat dotted his forehead and temples. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the hand lowered ever so gently to touch his nape.

The hand was cold as ice.

_Can you be my sanctuary?_

His eyes bulged. His heart vibrated, contracting. He could not breathe.

Was he still dreaming? He gulped audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. He sweated harder, his skin cold. The hand was now touching his bare shoulder blade, the palm kneading the muscle above his scapula.

And then, a finger traced his spine.

He shivered.

_Can you wipe the sadness in my eye?_

The hand moved up to palm the rounded curve of his shoulder. He was tempted to steal a glance but he lacked essential amount of guts to do so. The fingers were now tracing his clavicle.

_Can you hear me?_

All of a sudden, as though time ground to a halt, the hand stopped. The following silence was oppressive, a crushing silence. A cold puff of breath touched the back of his sensitive ear.

:

"…Kurosaki-kun."

:

Brown eyes snapped open.

His cell phone was ringing.

He was lying on his back and he was panting raggedly as though he were running a marathon. His chest went up and down in fast pace. Still breathless, he glanced over the nearest window; it was morning. Sunlight filtered through the gaps of the curtains, creating a shadow of thin fans of yellow light across the bare, cream-colored walls.

"Shit," he growled harshly, breathless and lifted a trembling hand to wipe the sweat off his face. He forced his body to relax which required gargantuan effort. When his heart stopped beating against his ears and trembling against his ribs, he swiped the blanket off. The air conditioner was off but he felt chilly. He was naked and soaked in cold sweat. Tiredly, he rolled to his side and sat up, snatching the loud device from the bedside table. With heavy-lidded eyes, he checked the caller ID.

His publisher.

With a grunt, he answered the call, "Yeah?" he growled, rubbing his face as he placed his elbows on his thighs. He listened half-heartedly, running his hand over his thick, sweat-damp hair. His hair was longer now; the back covered his nape, the front reaching the tip of his nose. Suddenly, he froze, remembering his dream, and quickly withdrew his hand from his hair, grabbing his knee as his knuckles flexed and turned white.

"Are you listening, Kurosaki-san?"

He grunted as a reply, and that seemed to satisfy the caller for he cut off the connection. He tossed the flip-phone over the table, leaned forward and grabbed his ankles to stretch his back. Still grabbing his ankles, he stood up, counted one to fifteen and straightened up. Half-lidded eyes lifted to the plain, round wall clock.

Seven-fifteen.

He snorted, _too early for a fucking call. _And he didn't have any idea what the call was about. He'd have to ask his publisher again.

He crossed the room towards the bathroom but he paused and looked at his desk. With a grim scowl, he slowly approached the table. Like the rest of the room, the table was bare and it lacked life. There were three items on the desk: an old, weathered typewriter, empty mug and a black leather-bound book with gold trimmings and gold Gothic lettering in front.

At the sight of the black book, his jaw clenched, and his heart, it painfully tightened. The loud ticking sounds of the clock filled the stagnant silence, making a dull echo. There was distant roar of a train passing. When the silence returned, the room was empty and the bathroom door shut without a sound.

:

Urahara Kisuke was not surprised when his most favorite employee arrived two hours late. So, when the door of his office opened and a bright head appeared, with a scowling face, followed by a long, lean body, he grinned indulgently and waved a hand.

"Ah~ Kurosaki-saaaan~ my most favorite writer in the whole wide world!"

The man snorted. "Do not patronize me."

Urahara faked a sad pout. "That hurt me _on _the inside."

Kurosaki Ichigo snorted. "Good. If that's true, then I'm glad."

Urahara laughed good-naturedly.

"What do you want?" asked Ichigo, a heavy scowl on his face. Everyone in Urahara Publishing, Inc stayed away from this scowling, tall man. The only person who can look in his face without so much of a quiver was Urahara himself, the publisher and founder of the publishing company.

"Hmm…"

The orange-haired man crossed his arms and glared; the glare's intensity did not diminish despite the presence of deep black circles around his tired, obviously sleep deprived eyes. The younger man's face looked strong, hard and drained. His eyes were dark, almost black instead of brown. Those eyes made Ichigo looked older than his age. He was only twenty five years old but his eyes belonged to a seventy year old heartbroken, tormented man.

"What is it?" prodded Kurosaki with impatience.

"Obviously," sang Urahara, "I was talking to _air _when I called you~"

"You fucking woke me up." Ichigo grumbled.

Urahara looked genuinely surprised. "Oh? So, you _can_ sleep now?"

Instantly, Ichigo's face hardened. "That is none of your concern."

Urahara pouted. "So scary!" He flicked his fan open and spoke behind the accessory. "I'm just worried, you know! You're my money-maker!"

"Stop talking shit," snorted Ichigo. "What is it that you want to talk about?"

"Celia."

Kurosaki flinched, his eyes looking more haunted and emptier than before. "What about it?" he asked coldly. Urahara hid a smile; it was a forbidden topic inside the office to talk about although everyone outside the building had been raving about _Celia_. It was more like no one had dared to talk about it _to _Ichigo.

"And don't fucking dare to beat around the bush. Go straight to the damn point."

"Uh-huh. Straight to the point. Straight as an arrow!"

"Urahara-san," growled Ichigo between gritted teeth.

"Well… I decided to give you a vacation!" Urahara chirped cheerfully.

The man was caught of guard. "A vacation?" What had _Celia _got to do with a vacation?

"Yup! You need a vacation, Kurosaki-san."

The surprise was replaced by indifference. "Hell no. I don't. You know I don't take vacations."

"I know. Yet, I'm giving you one."

"Well, I don't need _one,_" Ichigo hissed.

"You do."

"Damn it!"

Urahara sighed; it seemed he had to use a different approach. "Kurosaki-san, you are a talented writer. But please, pray tell me, have you looked at yourself in the mirror? There are corpses in the local hospital with rosier cheeks than yours." As a reply, the younger man scowled, eyes narrowing as though he was trying to pierce him with a stare. Urahara continued cheerfully. "You need rest, a couple of days off. The world is not going to end if you decide to slow down and relax. You _are _exhausted. You've been overworking your brain. As a friend, I am worried." At this, Ichigo snorted. "Trust me~ I care about your brain. It seems you have used it far more frequently than your tool of mass reproduction."

A large chunk of muscle moved and twitched in Ichigo's jaw.

Prudently, Urahara hurried to continue, "It seems that after Celia, you are unable to write and come up with more literary works, Kurosaki-san."

Ichigo looked away with a grunt, scowling heavily. Urahara, behind his messy desk, reached down to the bottom drawer, pulled it open and extracted his own copy of _Celia_.

"It was a very good book, Kurosaki-san. For someone who looks and acts like _you_, it seems that under that abnormal hair of yours, you _think_. You _can _think. Top selling book for _months_, several awards, critically acclaimed, Celia catapulted you to stardom." Urahara smiled slyly. "But sadly, it didn't help you get girls."

Ichigo gave him a withering look, deadly enough to shrivel a living flower.

"It was a top selling novel but…" Urahara glanced down to the plain, black book. "_Celia_ is also your curse, isn't it?" The book's cover design was plain black with gold Gothic lettering of _Celia_. However, it caught many people's interest; strangely, for something so plain, people were _drawn _to this stunningly simple book design and even stranger, the story entranced many readers.

"No, it's not _Celia_." Ichigo's face tensed, Urahara noticed. His eyes took an odd dreamy gleam. "It's _her_, isn't it?"

Ichigo lost his temper in an instant.

"What the fuck is your problem!" yelled the orange-haired man. "What I'm going through right now is simple _writer's block._ That's fucking all. I'm not haunted by my own fucking creation. I'm not tormented by some fictional character and fictional story! I'm not – why are you looking at me like that?"

"You really need a vacation, Kurosaki-san," Urahara replied promptly, unaffected by his outburst.

"No."

"Oh, you're going to take it whether you like it or not." The publisher returned his book into its place, rummaged inside another drawer and extracted a thin piece of paper, something that looked suspiciously like a brochure. "Take it or resign."

"You're crazy!" Ichigo was instantly in front of the desk, gripping the edges of the table.

Urahara laughed, "Why, thank you."

"That's so fucking –"

"Please, no cursing when you're shouting in my face, Kurosaki-san."

"You," gritted Ichigo with anger.

"I know I'm amazing." Urahara grinned, his green and white striped bucket hat concealing his eyes. "Please choose carefully."

"Damn you." Urahara shrugged and Ichigo's temper boiled even more. He straightened up and spat with venom, "Fine."

The blond man clapped. "Amazing~ I suggest you go somewhere quiet and relaxing." He gave him the brochure which Ichigo ripped from his hand. He read the brochure, saw where the location was and decided immediately.

"Not here."

"It is one of the most beautiful places in Japan! You'd love it! Plus," Urahara lifted a hand, index finger sticking out, "The place will surely inspire you!"

"No." Ichigo snarled with contempt.

With a sigh, Urahara shook his head. "Too bad. I made a reservation."

The orange-haired man gawked first before, "_WHAT! _Why the hell did you do that, you bastard!" shouted Ichigo, immediately crumpling the brochure and throwing it aside.

That was his last copy, Urahara thought sadly. "You'll leave tomorrow." He declared without flinching as the orange-haired man kept cursing about meddling and annoying publishers. "Have a safe trip~"

"Damn it!"

"I told you, no cursing when –"

"I KNOW!"

:

Kurosaki Ichigo started to hate sleeping exactly fourteen months and three days ago.

Fourteen months and three days ago, Celia was born.

_She _was born.

He first came up with the concept of Celia before creating her character. He later realized he did not _create_ her; she simply arrived. She entered the story, her appearance as natural as incoming wind but her arrival had set fire to his life, leaving a permanent damage. As he wrote day and night, he can perfectly see her through his words, a living ghost. The first few chapters were accomplished smoothly. Chapters later, he began seeing her in his dreams. At first, it was just images, the briefest outlines. Then it became moving pictures. It wasn't vivid; it was like watching an old colorless movie with blurred edges. He can only see her back, her hair, the back of her white dress and the snow around her. She never turned around to face him, but he knew what the color of her eyes were, how high her cheekbones were, how she would look if she smiled.

Days later, he began to hear her.

_Kurosaki-kun…_

He bought an iPod, listened to rock, heavy metal, and punk. He fell asleep while listening to music, but as he fell deeper into his dreams, it became quiet.

The dreams became frequent, became vivid, clear – so painfully clear, it was almost real that he could smell her scent, hear her heartbeat.

He managed to finish _Celia_, his first novel. He presented it to Urahara, Urahara liked it, Urahara Publishing, Inc published it and money came. Lots and lots of money, fame, compliments, good reviews, banter from his closest friends (who didn't expect him to be a writer) and … and… more dreams of her.

And lesser sleep.

Dreams became daydreams. Then, he can no longer determine which was real, which was not. She was _everywhere – _standing in the hallway, waiting under the shade of white cherry blossom tree outside the building of his apartment, sitting on a swing, looking up to the bus stop sign, waiting in the train station. He can hear her whisper behind his ears, her hand on his hair, her fingers tracing his spine, her hair tickling his cheeks.

Sleeping became a burden, a torment. Though there was a part of him that wanted to see and feel her, a larger part of him was more frightened than eager to encounter her in his dreams. He did not want to see her face.

Thus, he taught himself not to sleep.

Well, there were five second power naps, maybe fifteen minutes dozing off. The longest sleep he had, an hour of shut eye. His body, however, was slowly crumbling under the stress. He never looked at himself in a mirror, anxious of what or _who _he'd see. He had a nagging suspicion that it would not be his face he'd see but someone else's. When his sisters voiced their concerns, he waved off their worry. It was not fatal, I'm not going to die, he had told them. Karin commented that he looked like a corpse. He had laughed it off, but Karin had snapped viciously, saying that Yuzu had been crying because of intense worry.

He sought medical help. He underwent physicals, scans, all available diagnostic exams. There was nothing wrong with him except for his zombie-like appearance. He was interviewed, but he refused to say anything about _her_, about _Celia_, about the voice. He told his doctor that there was nothing wrong; he had trouble sleeping and that was all. The doctor – a female, forty-something, dark-haired with eyeglasses – gave him prescriptions; they were sleeping pills and Ichigo found it ironic. She gave him sleeping pills to help him sleep while he didn't want to sleep. But he kept quiet, nodded as the doctor explained the indications and contraindications, when to take the meds, what to do and what not to do. He listened, he _pretended_ to listen.

He left.

As he waited under a waiting shed (it was raining, he remembered now), he heard a song.

_She _was singing her love song.

The love song he wrote.

_Damn it._

:

One night, he woke up after a thirty minute shut eye.

Someone was caressing his face tenderly. The hand was cold, the fingers long, but the touch was gentle.

He opened his eyes and turned his face to the side.

:

_She _was staring right at him.

:

He never slept after that.

That was seven days ago.

:

Asahikawa was a cold, barren place, covered in snow as white as the clouds and this particular side of the city looked like a desert that instead of sand, there was powdered snow. Asahikawa was a well-known tourist destination, and during winter, Asahikawa was usually crawling with tourists. This remote part of Asahikawa, however, looked deserted. Cars, buses or any mode of transport were scarce. If automobiles were scarce, then, inhabitants were scarcer.

After asking three locales for direction, Ichigo found the place where he was supposed to stay. His eyebrow shot upward: it looked like a miniature, less elaborate, but ominous black stone plain version of Windsor Castle. It stood in the backdrop of vast forest and it was very far from what he had envisioned; he had expected a cozy little typical Japanese inn. The building was made of black stone, although, as of the moment, thick snow had completely covered the whole building; it was three storeys high with huge, arched windows which were probably taller than him. At the center of the building were wooden doors.

A square, stone tower protruded from the back of the building. It was approximately five-storey taller than the building itself and its spire was so tall it looked like it was touching and extending beyond the gray, thick clouds above. From what he can see from his position, the stone tower had a single, square window.

His scowl deepened as he gazed at the façade, vaguely confused on why the place felt familiar. He tried to jog his memory but to no avail. However, he was certain that he had seen and been here before but could not remember when. In fact, the odd but striking familiarity of the place made his skin crawl.

:

She paused from her perusal when the right side of the massive doors opened with a loud groan. Few sprinkles of snow floated in. With a heavy sound, the door shut and the silence was fractured by echoes of light footsteps.

From the entryway, a tall man appeared, pausing in the middle to look around the massive atrium and stare up to the high ceiling supported by high arches. He was in black trench coat, faded jeans, sneakers instead of boots, and thick, maroon scarf. Snow clung to his clothes and… orange hair? How odd. Seemingly done with his passive scrutiny, he started towards her. He walked with an air of rough grace, his strides long.

Up close, she realized: this man was a man who hadn't sleep for a long time. A haunted man with eyes far older than his actual age. He stopped and gave her a look, raising a gloved hand to pull down his scarf which was wrapped around his neck, covering his mouth.

"I have a reservation." His voice was deep and strangled. He was taller up close, easily towering over her. He wore his scowl like a second skin. His stare was direct and distant, but polite.

She did not reply.

His scowl looked curious, an eyebrow lifting. "This is _Las Anochecer, _right?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes."

"Are you the hotel's receptionist? I have a reservation here. My name's Kurosaki Ichigo."

Her brow had pinched but she kept her expression neutral as she gave a polite greeting. "Good afternoon," she said with a practiced, tight-lipped smile. "I am Nanao Ise."

He nodded. "Can I have the key to my room?"

There was a pause in her movement before she quietly turned to a cabinet on the wall. Her slim fingers skimmed over the row of gold, long keys before wrapping them around a particular set and raised them off the hook. Nanao placed the set in front of the man.

"How much?" asked the man, reaching for his backpack.

She stared at him, unblinking. The man gave her an expectant look. "Already paid for, sir," she finally replied.

He looked confused at first, eyes narrowed; then, he nodded stiffly and lifted the set from the counter. He stared at the key, shrugged and turned to leave, but he paused in mid-stride, seemingly torn whether to ask for help in navigating his way around the place.

"I shall escort you to your room, sir."

"Good idea."

:

An index finger traced a circle on the wall beside the window. The finger stopped at the sound of door opening and closing. After a few heartbeats, it resumed tracing circles in counterclockwise direction.

"Aren't you cold? You're sitting too fucking close to the damned window."

"I smelt something delicious."

The chair started to rock back and forth. A fold of white cloth fell to the stone floor. The chair continued to tip back and forth, back and forth making a dull, creaking sound.

Suddenly, it stopped.

"I'm hungry."

There was a grunt.

Thick lashes lifted to reveal wide hazel-brown eyes. The finger stopped. There was a sound of fabric moving and shifting as the occupant of the chair turned to look up to the tall, breathing statue of man.

"Would you please get me something to eat," the small voice paused, "Grimmjow?"

:

Behind her, Nanao heard her companion screeching to an abrupt halt. The corner of her thin lips lifted. Rearranging her expression into a formal one, she turned around.

"I see." She began professionally. "Entranced, aren't you," her eyelids dropped half-mast, "Kurosaki-san?"

:

A cold grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing a pair of pearl white pointed canines. Ice blue eyes looked down at the slim figure clad in purest white sitting on the wooden chair.

"Is there any specification, Your Highness?"

The finger traced circles again, in clockwise direction.

"I want something that breathes."

:

_What the… fuck!_

It was the only coherent thought that Ichigo managed to form inside his head as he looked up to the life-size portrait of a woman.

:

The cold blue eyes watched the pale thin finger trace circles over and over again.

The finger stopped.

He lifted his gaze from the finger; he ground his teeth.

Caramel-colored eyes were looking up at him, a hint of a smile in them. Long, long locks of hair framed paper-white face; they fell around and over thin shoulders, down to slender back, and over the backrest and seat of the chair.

"Please, Grimmjow."

Before he could stop himself, he retorted dryly, "I hate it when you smile."

The long locks fell forward as the face turned to the bare, square window. Flecks of snow and frosty breeze floated in but neither shivered from the cruel cold. The view provided a panorama of lonely, barren field of nothing but snow, pine trees and in the distance, an outline of a frozen lake. It was quite lovely.

The finger resumed tracing circle patterns.

"But I'm really hungry." It was quiet and soft. "So, get me some food, please."

"As you wish, Your Highness,"

"…Thank you."

:

It was an impressive realistic portrait of a woman.

She was wearing a white dress. It was simple but long, a very long dress. The sleeves on her shoulders were puffed out and they fell long and loose around her arms and down to her knuckles. The white dress made her eyes unnaturally bright, made her auburn hair brighter. The woman was sitting on a wooden chair by a square, stone window. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her toes poking out of the skirt. One arm was around her knees and her other hand was on the windowsill, her index finger poking out as though she was tracing imaginary circles. The room she was in suspiciously looked like a room up in a cold, lonely stone tower. There were patterns of stone bricks in the background.

Long, _long _locks of orange-red hair were loose around her face and shoulders, solid waterfalls of dark blood. A pair of glittering periwinkle hairpins on either side of her head kept her bangs behind her ears, but some short locks escaped and fell artfully between and over her eyebrows.

As Ichigo stared up to her, his heart was beating violently, painfully against his ribs. It was cold, but few beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

A raw feeling of trepidation overpowered his senses as he stepped closer to the portrait.

_It can't be. It is fucking impossible._

The more he looked at that face, the harder his heart raced, the harder his heart ached.

The chair. The window. The stone walls. …_Celia._

No wonder he hated this place almost immediately! This place, the woman… _she… _that face—

_Can you be my sanctuary?_

_Can you wipe the sadness in my eye?_

Those large caramel-colored eyes.

_Can you heal my broken wing?_

_Can you… hear me?_

:

"…Orihime?" Ichigo croaked in disbelief.

:

"The fuck? Who the hell do you think you are to fucking mention _that_ name?"

Startled, Ichigo turned his head around towards the voice. Someone tall, someone muscular but not bulky was approaching. The footsteps were heavy and echoed heavily in the wide hallway. The approaching man's features became clear as he drew closer.

Ichigo's scowl deepened, his eyes dark as he surveyed the approaching man.

The man stopped several feet away from him, sniffed and grinned, flashing pearl white long canines. Ichigo's eyes snapped wide, dread filling his veins.

_Those… aren't real, are they?_ He thought skeptically. The stranger's ensemble was all white: white trench coat, white three piece suit, white tie, white gloves and white footwear. His blue eyes stood out, piercing and as cold as ice.

Ichigo didn't like the way the man was looking at him with arrogance and detachment. And eyes were not supposed the glow, weren't they?

"The food arrived, eh?"

Ichigo's eyebrows snapped together in annoyance.

With a cold sneer, the newcomer shoved his fists inside his white trench coat's big pockets. "Good. The Princess is fucking hungry. Come the hell with me." Long canines appeared and flashed as the man snarled like a saber-tooth tiger.

"_Human_."


	2. a great beauty

Ichigo looked confused at first. "Food?" he repeated in disbelief. "Are you… Are you _crazy_?"

The man looked at him blankly, as if he were a piece of uninteresting insect. "Fucking idiot." Ichigo opened his mouth to retort but the woman behind him spoke.

"Grimmjow." Her tone was curt. "This way, please." She held out a pale hand, indicating him to follow her.

The man raised an arrogant eyebrow.

"_This way_."

Ichigo jerked; he felt something passed between the two strangers. Something cold and deadly, sharp like icicle. His brown eyes narrowed suspiciously and cautiously, his nerves tingling, alarming him.

"Fine," the man grunted.

The two disappeared in a corner. Ichigo was left alone and his eyes wandered around. The ceiling, like in the atrium, was high and supported by pointed arches. There were more stained windows than walls in the hallway. Outside, the hotel looked like a fortress, a castle, but inside, it was like stepping inside a massive cathedral, but instead of images depicted in Bible, the stained windows were plain. The walls were faded yellow. He had expected cold, black stone. He wished the hotel, despite its old age, was equipped with high tech flushing system and heaters.

Ichigo stared up to the portrait. His heavy-lidded eyes darkened. Instantly, as their eyes met, his heart rate raced in a way that was almost painful. Frowning, he let his eyes traced the curve of her face, the curl of those locks, the dimple on her cheek, the column of her slender throat… and down, down… _down…_

He licked his dry lips.

_Damn. _

Something akin to dread froze his blood, causing him to swallow. Exactly seven days ago, _that _face was staring right at him. _That_ woman was lying beside him on his bed. _That_ hand was caressing his face, and _those _eyes were staring into his.

_It's coincidence, _he told himself. _Just a freaking coincidence, _he ground his molars as he fortified himself.

"Sir."

He turned his head, his expression carefully neutral.

"Is there a problem?"

_You tell me, _he wanted to say but he grunted and shrugged. "Nothing."

The blue-eyed man appeared behind Nanao, his expression cold. "Then, let's proceed." She turned to the other man unflinchingly. "I believe you know your way out?"

The man did not toss him a glance, extracting a box of Dunhill Lights from inside his trench coat, took out a piece and lighted it. He walked past Ichigo without a glance, but Ichigo felt his nerves crackle with suspicion. Subtly, he looked over his shoulder.

Ichigo's eyes widened.

The man was gone.

_Holy… shit. _

Urahara told him to go somewhere quiet and relaxing, but in two seconds flat, he already hated the place, the portrait, the hotel receptionist and the strange-colored haired stranger who can vanish into thin air. How can he relax and be inspired to write here? His instincts told him he'd probably get into trouble if he stayed here any longer. There was something off and alien about the stillness. And most of all, _these_ people. There was something about them that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Their presence felt like an invisible hand of winter chill that wrapped around his neck and body, squeezing him.

He could only curse Urahara and his meddling as he followed Nanao.

:

When Grimmjow returned two hours later, the chair was empty. Unobstructed, moonlight flooded in through the square window, providing faint illumination of the vast rectangular stone room. He turned to the massive and ornate canopy white bed which can occupy at least four bodies. With a grunt, he stalked in, dragging something behind him. He had left the door open. The light from the yellow bulbs lighting the hallway filtered in.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. "Are you awake?"

The white bundle on the bed moved and lifted its head.

"…You know I don't sleep."

He rolled his eyes and tossed something on the center of the floor. It whimpered. "I got something for you. Eat up."

There was a sound of shifting cloth and bedspread, and a pair of pale feet touching the cold, stone floor.

"Oh."

"Disappointed?" Grimmjow sneered.

"It's not _him_."

The corner of his mouth curled. "You're picky, huh?"

"It's okay. He'll suffice. I'm really hungry." The soundless footsteps crossed the room and stopped before the gagged and bound man. "Oh, he's breathing, Grimmjow. Thank you."

"Whatever. Eat up. I'd take care of the mess later on."

"…He's terrified."

He shrugged, "He should be." Grimmjow glared down at the captured helpless man. The human's eyes were popping out in fear; the nerves around his eyes were throbbing, his face was almost white in terror, thick with sweat. Small whimpers were heard from his gagged mouth. The human's body was shaking and it shook harder as a pale hand reached out, stroking the damp, messy hair.

"Hmm…"

"Your Highness," growled Grimmjow.

"Leave us."

His scowl deepened.

"_Grimmjow._"

There was a twinkle of blue and gold light and almost immediately, a deep cut appeared on his arm and blood erupted violently from the gash. Something invisible and faster than a bullet had lashed at him. The shock would have sent him spitting a curse but he bit his lip hard. "Shit. Alright, you don't have to go fucking do that _shit thing_, you know." He looked down at his injured arm. Thick blood rolled down from his bicep to his forearm. In the darkness of the room, it looked like mercury.

"I'm sorry. I cannot control it… Especially when I'm _this _hungry. Do you want me to heal you?"

"Don't bother." Prolonged abstinence was not recommended, especially for royals, Ulquiorra told him once. Most especially for _this_ one. Grunting, he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He lit another Dunhill Lights, waited for a few minutes before snorting as a terrified scream echoed from the room. The scream made an echo; it was high-pitched, a sound similar to nails scratching a blackboard before it was abruptly silenced. A scent of blood wafted from the tiny space between the door and the floor.

Grimmjow's neon blue eyes glowed as a reaction to the smell of blood, his fangs lengthening but he gritted his teeth, walked off, and stood by a stone, square window to watch the full moon.

:

Ichigo was startled as he heard a faint sound that resembled a scream. It reverberated, sounding like a howl. And then, abruptly, it died. He stood up to approach the window. He pushed the heavy ceiling to floor curtain aside. The moon, it was unusually fat and full tonight.

_Damn. This place is… fucking strange. _And even stranger, that tower, why did it look familiar?

Frowning, he let the curtain fall, walked back to the desk and sat down to continue typing on his Mac. Despite the medieval feel of this hotel, internet connection was perfect. He checked his mails, deleted two unread mails from Kiego, and wrote two emails, one for his sister Yuzu and one for Karin. He intentionally _forgot _to write one for his father. He was tempted to send a message filled with curses and threats to his publisher but decided not to if he did not want to end up jobless once he came back to Karakura.

After sending his emails, he checked the local news. An article about missing persons caught his interest. Since winter begun, locales, male mostly, began to go missing. There were no bodies found. No traces found. It was like the missing people vanished into thin air. Disinterested, Ichigo stopped reading in the middle and switched to checking his website.

:

When Grimmjow opened the door, he was greeted with a stench of blood. It was heavy and it smelt disgusting. He cast a blank look at the bloody mess on the floor.

_Heh. She really is hungry._

Usually, Her Highness was not a messy eater. Blood was to be savored, that was one of her quirky rules. He glanced at the bed. "Had a good meal?"

She did not reply.

"Still hungry?"

"I can still smell him."

His frown deepened at the answer. A sound of something rolling and shifting cloth filled the silence.

"It's a weird smell."

"Are you still hungry?"

Another shifting of cloth, of bedspread, of limbs. Grimmjow watched with a bored expression the slow movements of joints, curling and uncurling of auburn locks, the way the white dress made her skin paler, paler than powdered snow. In slow, measured movements, she sat up, staring at the wall before her. There were few, random red spots on the white blankets. Hand prints, spots similar to a sweep of a paintbrush as though someone wiped its hand on the blanket. Her hands had a tinge of red on them.

Standing up, thick waves of hair tumbled down, concealing small shoulders and pale face. Like a ghost, she floated towards the chair and sat down, head tilted up to stare up to the sky, obscuring Grimmjow's perfect view of the full moon.

"Are you disappointed?" he asked, leaning against one of the posts of canopy bed.

"Kind of but it was a good meal. Thank you for your hard work." A long pause, then: "Are you angry?"

Grimmjow's eyebrows knitted together. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You are _my _Espada. Bound to me." There was a faint howl of blowing wind from the distance. Large chunks of cloud passed and obscured the moon. Darkness cloaked the forest. Wind passed and stirred the leaves, causing the foliages to hiss. "Wherever I go, you go."

"I'm a royal lap dog," snorted Grimmjow, curious at the odd topic.

"Are _you _angry?"

"No."

"Liar." It was said very softly.

Grimmjow shrugged. "Think what you want. I don't care. I do my job, that's fucking all."

"Hmm, you're more hot-tempered than usual. Do you miss Neliel?"

A fine, blue eyebrow rose. Another odd question. "Again, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I figure the cause of your hot temper is that you miss her. I am sorely sorry you had to be here with me, Grimmjow."

He snorted. "Your jokes are lamer than usual." This time, the clouds concealing the moon moved slightly, permitting the moon to peep through the cracks.

"You really don't have to follow me wherever I go, Grimmjow."

"Are you insane? Your father will skin me alive!" It was not an exaggeration. He knew what _he _was capable of.

"I won't let him, don't worry."

He glared at the back of her head with great concentration that when she turned in her seat and looked at him, he was slightly taken aback. The glow of the faint moonlight made her hair shine eerily. The upper half of her face was concealed in the shadows, leaving her lips visible. The hairpins on either side of her head twinkled. She held out a small, long-fingered hand. It was very feminine and fragile. It was impossible to think that it was capable of snapping a human neck as though it was made of chalk.

"Take my hand."

Without preamble, he replied. "No."

A faint smile appeared on her lips. "Are you scared of me?"

"Fuck no," he answered defiantly. The smile on her face grew.

"You're being cautious, aren't you?"

"What the hell is your problem?"

He could feel her stare penetrate his skin and bones. Slowly, she lowered her hand and for a little while, it was silent, neither moved. Grimmjow could hear the sound of a distant leaf struggling to stay afloat, and then, complete silence. It was like a thick tarp that had fallen over the place, trapping sounds and lights. Then, without a sound, she turned back to staring up at the moon. The clouds had parted, revealing the full moon.

"All of a sudden, I realize I miss Las Noches. Isn't it odd?"

A frown creased Grimmjow's forehead. The change of topics was abrupt and bizarre but he didn't comment about that. "Do you want to go back to Las Noches?"

"Not yet. But there is a place I wanted to go."

"Where is it?"

She did not reply and stared up to the moon quietly.

:

At eight in the morning, Ichigo went out, a thick, dark green jacket with fake furs protecting him from the cold. It had stopped snowing but the snow was still thick and wherever he looked, there was nothing but snow and frozen trees. The clouds above were large, thick, gray chunks and they hung low in the sky, covering the sky and the sun. Looking at them caused Ichigo's anxiety to thicken. As he trudged through the sidewalk, he glanced around and noted that time seemed to move slowly in this place. It felt like the hands of time were stuck and everything was frozen, suspended in space. Few residents popped out from the corners, quiet and eyes downcast, talking in murmurs. When he asked a passing pedestrian, he discovered that the people were wary because of the news of disappearing people. A curfew was established, he was told, days before but it did not help. People continued to disappear. As a matter of fact, a man was found missing just this morning.

He entered the nearest eatery with a relieved sigh; the heaters were on. An elderly man greeted him with surprise. It seemed that tourists were rare in this isolated side of Asahikawa. He said nothing, ignoring the questioning gaze the old man was throwing at him – maybe because of the dark circles around his eyes and his zombie-like appearance – and proceeded into checking out the menu. The menu, he discovered with dismay, was simple and did not rouse his interest. Left with no choice, he ordered coffee and sat down on a booth in the farthest corner. The place was well-lit but deserted except for the owner and an old jazz music softly playing in the background. On top of a table next to his was a newspaper. He reached for it and read the headline. It was about a series of disappearing people. Almost a dozen people had already vanished, the headline said.

"Refill, sir?"

Ichigo looked up. The owner. "Yeah. Thanks."

When his cup was refilled, the man spoke. "Weird, isn't it?" Vaguely, Ichigo nodded.

"When did those people start vanishing?"

"This month."

He arched a brow. "This month and already a dozen disappeared? Did you contact the police?"

"We did. But the police dropped the case. They said there was nothing they could do about it. The case was vague with no traces of evidences to work with. Maybe those people got bored living in this place and decided to make an exodus. After all, this particular side of Asahikawa is almost inaccessible, uninteresting and sadly overlooked. Residents chose to leave and stay in the more populated area of the city. That's what they concluded but we are still frightened by this phenomenon. Although, strictly speaking, this is not the first time this happened."

"These disappearances happened before?"

"Yes. It happened yearly." Then, he looked at Ichigo curiously. "I am genuinely surprised to see a visitor, considering this side of the city is unpopular. Where are you staying, sir? If you don't mind me asking,"

Ichigo shrugged, showing he did not mind the question. "There's a huge block of black stone after the frozen lake. That's where I am staying."

The elderly man looked surprised. "Ah. The black fortress, you mean? You must be a very privileged man."

"Why is that?"

"That castle is a private property belonging to man with no face and no name. No one is allowed to enter the place although no one will even try."

"I am under the impression that it is a hotel."

The man arched his brow. "A hotel, you say?"

"Yeah. _Las Anochecer_," informed Ichigo.

"Hmm… How odd. I haven't heard about that. It's Spanish, isn't it? We believe it's a private property, not a hotel. If it _is _a hotel, then you're the very first person I encountered who claimed to be staying there. And trust me; I met a lot of people, townsfolk and tourists."

The bell dinged, indicating that a customer had stepped in. Ichigo and the owner looked at the entrance. A thin man with shoulder-length blond hair had entered. He carried a bag resembling a guitar case; he was wrapped in thick coat, scarves and hat. He looked around with a bored expression on his face, chose a seat and sat down. The owner bowed at Ichigo and left to assist the newcomer. Ichigo was left to read the newspaper. Around noon, he ordered chicken salad and another coffee for lunch. After which, he left the place, walked around the monotonous town before deciding to return to the hotel. He found himself walking down a pathway that bordered the frozen, large lake which he did not notice the night before. The great expanse of white spread out before him, a blinding shimmering of paleness. Tall pine trees covered in snow surrounded the lake. There was a small wooden dock with a bench. He walked over to the edge. The ice must have been almost twenty centimeters thick and in some places it shone like opaque glass, hinting at the current of black water that flowed under its thick shell.

As he turned to continue on his journey, he heard a giggle. Ichigo stopped and looked around. The trees were unnaturally still. He waited, eyes narrowed.

There was another giggle, this time, it was louder and clearer. Frowning, he followed the sound, footprints trailing behind him. There was a sound of feet moving around, a soft hum of a familiar melody. He found a trail of narrow footprints. He followed the tracks and he arrived in a small, round clearing beside the frozen lake. A girl with long, russet hair was humming a melody while making a snowman. She was wearing a plain, white dress with elbow-length sleeves. She wore no jacket or scarf. What made the whole ensemble stranger was that she was not wearing any shoes.

"Oi."

The girl stopped in the middle of carving a smile on the snowman's face.

"It's freezing out here, you have no jacket and you're _barefoot?_ Are you crazy?" Ichigo waited for the girl to face him. Her hands lowered to her sides, and slowly, she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

The first thing he saw was a pair of unnaturally brown eyes which seemed too big for her face. And then, Ichigo's eyes widened as he staggered back. It was a familiar face, painfully and terrifyingly familiar. He had never, in his whole life, seen as beautiful and as frightening.

"O-Orihime?" Ichigo whispered.

_His Orihime._

The girl blinked. "How did you know my name?"


	3. a lovely likeness

She was facing him fully now, allowing him to see her whole features.

Blue veins were visible under the thin sheet of paper-white skin, giving her a faint blue complexion. Her eyes were so brown, an otherworldly honey color, accentuated by golden flecks dotting the irises of her eyes. Blue hairpins clipped her long bangs to the side but a few locks had escaped and hung freely over her cheeks. Against the pale backdrop of snow and pine trees, her long caramel hair seemed out of place.

"Are you okay? You look pale."

The sound of her voice sent a violent shiver down his spine, causing his heart to pound. A weird sensation chilled his blood, but oddly, it was thick with something akin to… pleasure. This reaction startled him; he was a difficult person to charm, but with a simple sentence, his reaction was immediate. But this woman shared the same face and same name with the person he was 'obsessing over' – as aptly stated by Urahara – so it should not be surprising.

"Excuse me, are you okay?" She repeated, sounding genuinely concerned.

Ichigo cleared his throat. "I'm fine." _Hell no. _He swallowed. "Who _are_ you?"

"You mentioned my name. I'm Orihime."

_Coincidence. _ He told himself. _This is just one fucked up coincidence. _Was he dreaming? Was he having another nightmare while he was awake? With dread, he recognized the similarity of his current situation with one of his many dreams: the snow, the white dress, the woman herself. The only difference was that _she _was facing him.

The girl frowned slightly, obviously worried. "Are you sure you're okay? You don't look so well… Maybe you need to sit down?" She gestured to her left; there was a stone bench nearby. The view from that vantage point was excellent, providing an unobstructed view of the frozen lake and its surrounding trees. The girl gestured again for him to sit down. When he did not move, she took his forearm and led him to the bench. Ichigo let her, still dazed with confusion.

They sat down next to each other. "Did I frighten you?"

Ichigo blinked and turned to at her. She was staring at the frozen lake, and she looked unaffected by the chill of the weather despite her lack of warmer clothing. She turned her head to look at him, their eyes meeting with an intense impact.

It was unmistakably _her._ He knew those eyes.

Again, he swallowed and looked down at her bare feet instead, finding her gaze too strong. Her ankles were slender. "You're not wearing any shoes."

"Oh." She dug her feet under the snow. "I love the snow. I want to feel them better!"

"But it's _cold._ And you're not wearing a coat. You might get sick."

She smiled at him. "Thank you for your concern but I have a strong immune system." She kicked at the snow playfully. Ichigo was still unconvinced but he chose to let the matter slide. "Do you feel better now?" He looked at her and found her peering up at him worriedly.

No, he wanted to say. "I do. Thanks." He said instead. He glanced over at the frozen lake. He could feel her stare and he found it uncomfortable. Startling her, he turned his head and met her wide-eyed gaze.

"What?" He asked. The girl blinked, retreating back, smiling sheepishly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You…" She licked her lips, her lashes lowering over her eyes.

Ichigo found himself entranced at the sight of her lips. They were red with a pouty bottom lip. The Orihime in his book had the same perfect, sensual mouth. Her lashes lifted, revealing her doe eyes, meeting his half-lidded gaze. They were wide and unblinking, with an unusual depth in them. They pulled him in, and Ichigo felt an incredibly strong magnetism, so strong that it shook him all over. He felt the rest of the world fade away, the sounds dulled until there was nothing but eerie silence.

His hands itched to touch her face, her lips.

"I have to go."

Ichigo blinked and he realized, his heart was beating so fast and his skin was hot. He licked his dry lips, trying to calm the beat of his heart and the frantic rush of his blood.

The girl stood up, her long, dark-red hair seemed to float around her, drowning her pale face. She took a few steps forward. At her fifth step, she paused and looked at him over her shoulder. She smiled. "It was nice meeting you."

"Yeah…" Ichigo continued to watch her intently under his hooded lids.

She returned his stare, blinked slowly and smiled again, dazzling him. "I hope to see you soon, Kurosaki-kun." After another smile, she walked away.

It was only when he was alone when he realized he never gave her his name.

:

Ichigo was looking up to the portrait when Nanao Ise appeared soundlessly from a corner. She stopped and observed him.

"Who is this woman?" he asked.

When the receptionist did not answer, Ichigo glanced over at her; the woman looked surprised. She looked as if she did not expect him to address or sense her presence. He cocked an eyebrow inquiringly. An odd, intrigued look flitted over her sharp features, eyes narrowed as though she was examining an out of this world specimen. The crease on Ichigo's forehead deepened; why was she looking at him like that? Did he say something weird, do something strange?

He watched Nanao rearrange her expression and she asked, "May I inquire why do you want to know?"

Ichigo chose his next words. He could not tell her who he saw. It would sound weird. Moreover, his guts told him not to trust this woman even with the slightest things. He'd have to be careful and pretend obliviousness.

"I'm curious."

Nanao's expression did not change as she studied his face. "This portrait is 237 years old, Kurosaki-san." She said carefully, slowly.

His eyes rounded. "237!"

"Yes. This painting was bought by the owner of _Las Anochecer_r in an auction in Paris two years ago. This was the most expensive painting ever auctioned that year. The painter, however, was unidentified."

"But…" He frowned. "Do you know who she is?"

Her lips thinned before she replied, "A random muse, I believe."

_Random? No shit._

Ichigo stared up to the painting. The woman he met today and the woman in the painting looked exactly the same. They even wore the _same_ hairpins. They had the same hair color, same eye color, same body built, and same perfect lips.

_What is going on here?_

"You are not the first human who expressed his interest in the woman in this painting. She is quite lovely, isn't she?"

"Yeah… She is." This was the second time he heard the word 'human' with the same distant tone. The first person who uttered the word with the same tone albeit with distaste was the blue-haired man he met during his first day. "I'm sure the other guests find her attractive as well." He added with a shrug.

Nanao did not reply right away. Ichigo turned to her curiously. Her expression had not changed a bit, and he found it peculiar.

"You are the _only _guest here, Kurosaki-san."

His eyes widened.

"Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. Please don't be late." Nanao bowed and left.


	4. a cruel hunger

Ichigo stared up to the unfamiliar ceiling.

Despite his fatigue, he refused to close his eyes. He was more determined now to stay awake. In a poor attempt to amuse himself, he studied the room he was provided with.

The room was vast; the furniture was grand, polished to perfection. The bed in the center of the room was white and wide, capable to hold four persons. It was an enormous room with high ceiling, red velvet ceiling to floor curtains and one grand chandelier. However, despite the size and grandeur of the room, Ichigo felt restrained, uncomfortable.

Tiredly, he sighed and ran a hand over his messy red hair. He glanced over his bag. He reached for it, slid a large hand inside and felt around. He froze as it came in contact with a familiar object – a book.

His jaw clenched. Gritting his teeth, he withdrew his hand and clenched it tightly.

:

He woke up to the feeling of a thin arm wrapping around his midsection.

He did not open his eyes, but a frown appeared on his face as he realized he had fallen asleep while in on his side. He soon felt a body snuggle to his back, a cold breath touching his nape. A hand touched his chest, and his heart pounded violently in reply.

"Your heart is beating so fast…"

Ichigo swallowed. Just as he imagined, her voice was sweet and pure.

They stayed entwined, for how long, he did not know. She kept her hand over his heart. Then he felt her shift and her lips touched the back of his neck. Ichigo clenched his fist over his blanket, tensing. Before he knew it, he was speaking, his tone strained as he struggled to contain his composure.

"Why are _you _doing this to me?"

She did not reply. The silence was compressive, a chokehold around his neck.

Then something strange happened; she lifted herself up, hovered and kissed his cheek. Surprised, his eyes snapped open. Long, thick locks of auburn hair were all over his face. He reached up to tread his long fingers over her hair; they were soft under the pads of his fingers. Entranced, he continued to comb her hair. She felt almost-real. At this last thought, his fingers curled around the strands.

_This is just a dream, _he told himself.

Her lips touched the shell of his ear, and Ichigo shivered.

"You're fucking up with my head," growled Ichigo with a frustrated scowl. "What do you want from me?" She did not answer him. In his brief spell of anger and frustration tinged with fear, he grasped the back of her head and rolled to his back. She did not move even when he forced her to straddle him, a hand at the back of her head, grasping a fistful of auburn hair.

His eyes were drawn to her red lips. "Orihime…" He growled as though he was in pain. Her perfect red lips parted slightly but no words came out. It frustrated him, and in his desperation, he pulled her head down and kissed her full on the mouth.

Ichigo felt his world turn upside down. Someone tore the ground beneath his feet; he plunged into an imaginary abyss.

This… feeling of her lips on his, it was something a person could get crazy about. An urge came over him, harsh and animalistic. His lips moved over hers frantically despite of the fact that she was unresponsive and still as a statue. But Ichigo did not care; he wanted her, he had always wanted her. What mattered now was that he was able to touch her like _this. _

He reversed their position, still kissing her. His hands wandered to the curve of her hips. One of his hands lowered to her thigh, pushing her skirt up to touch her skin.

A hand gently touched his cheek and cradled the side of his face. To his amazement, he felt her respond to his rough kisses. Ichigo gently pulled his lips away from hers. Shrouded in the darkness of the room, he was unable to see her expression; only her lips were visible. Panting, he strained to see her face better by pushing her hair off her face, but she cupped his face with both hands and pulled him down for another kiss. Almost immediately, he took control of the kiss, mindlessly devouring her lips and exploring her mouth with his tongue.

He did not care if she was real or not, if it was a dream or a nightmare, imagination or real. He caressed her thigh, going as far as touching her rear while kissing her thoroughly.

He felt her push against his shoulder and their lips parted.

Catching his breath, Ichigo watched her swollen lips move. She was speaking, he thought vaguely, but he was feeling quite intoxicated, unhinged, so he kissed her again, tangling his tongue with hers. He groaned, deepening the kiss.

She was murmuring against his lips.

"…It's time to wake up."

Ichigo blinked.

:

It was eight in the morning.

:

After several seconds of staring up to the unfamiliar ceiling, Ichigo groaned, yanking a chunk of orange hair. "Damn it."

:

The dining hall was empty except for a blond man wiping glassware when Ichigo came down and chose a table near a French window overlooking to the lush, snowy gardens. The same blond man in butler suit with a lock of hair falling over the side of his face did not look up from his task but he carefully set down the wineglass he was wiping, came to Ichigo's table and asked him what he wanted. Ichigo ordered coffee and nothing else. Rubbing his tired eyes, he glanced outside the window beside him.

As usual, large gray clouds occupied the whole sky. They hung low, touching the surrounding mountaintops. It felt like the sky and the earth were going to collide with the way the clouds filled the sky. Forty five minutes later, after emptying his third cup of coffee, Ichigo found himself walking down the snow-covered pathway that bordered the frozen lake. It was silent and windless. There was no movement in the air. Even the leaves were frozen, as if suspended in place.

When he arrived in the clearing, she was already there, busy with another snowman. She was dressed in the same plain white dress reaching her calves and like yesterday, she was barefoot. With a full intent to touch her, he approached her but he changed his mind halfway and sat down on the bench instead. Silently, he listened to her hum a familiar melody. He tried to place where he heard it but she stopped, stepped back from the snowman and turned to him.

"What do you think?" she asked with a smile. She looked really beautiful, he thought, with exquisite lips and a beautiful smile he wanted to capture in a box to hide and treasure.

"You're taller than him."

Orihime laughed. The sound was beautiful. "It's because I can't make a snowman as tall as myself. It's difficult, I tried once."

"Where's the other snowman?"

"Oh, the one I made yesterday?"

"Yeah, that one,"

She smiled. "I recycled him. I wanted to make a bigger and taller snowman but my efforts were not enough." Slowly, she walked up to him and stopped two steps before him. They stared at each other and Ichigo decided that he wanted to touch her.

Without taking his eyes off her, he took off his right glove, reached forward and very carefully, he took her hand in his. It was small compared to his large hand. Mesmerized, he squeezed her fingers. Real, solid, _alive._ She was supposed to be a figment of his lonely imagination, wasn't she? But here he was, holding her small hand. A more rational part of him insisted that this person he was holding hands with was a different person from Orihime in his book. That everything was just a mere coincidence.

_Yeah… everything's just a coincidence. This does not mean anything._

She took a step forward, their knees almost touching. "You look tired." She said softly. Ichigo looked up to her eyes. Her brown irises almost filled the whites of her eyes. He felt like he was being watched by an otherworldly creature. "Are you sick?"

"No." He said quietly. "I'm just having trouble sleeping." He returned to observing her hand. Her skin was smooth and cold to touch. He traced the blue veins with his fingertip.

"Why are you having trouble sleeping?"

He did not answer, engrossed in examining her hand.

"Are you having nightmares?"

He shrugged. Orihime took a seat beside him, her hand still enveloped in his grip.

"When was the last time you slept?" Ichigo looked at her; she looked genuinely curious and painfully sweet and innocent.

"I can't remember." He told her, and it was the truth. Sleeping seemed like an alien thing to him.

"Oh." She wrapped her fingers around him. "I'm sorry." Ichigo could detect sincerity in her voice. "Is that why you're taking a vacation?"

"Maybe," he replied vaguely. Narrowing his eyes, he examined her closely and asked, "Where do you live, Orihime?" She blinked and stared at him with a hint of wonder. Ichigo noticed. "Why are you looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong?"

"No, you didn't. It's just…" She smiled, her eyes sparkling. "You're the second person who calls me by my name." She answered softly.

His grip on her hand tightened. "I'm sorry. Does it bother you?"

She shook her head, smiling. "Don't apologize, please. It's okay. I'm just glad, that's all. It's rare for me to meet someone who'd call me by my first name." She smiled sideways at him. "And yes, I live somewhere very near here."

He wrinkled his nose. "I suppose you live _near _this place. Near enough for you to become comfortable walking around barefoot,"

She pouted. "I feel more comfortable like this. I love the snow!"

"But it's unhealthy. Don't you feel cold?"

"I don't." She smiled up at him. "But look, I brought my cloak with me." She pointed at the long, thick red cloak with attached hood hanging from a branch of tree. "And like I said before, I have strong immune system. I don't get sick. Never." Her lashes lowered over her eyes. She seemed to be studying the buttons of his overcoat. He took advantage of her preoccupation and stared at her lips. With a jolt, he remembered his dream, relived it and his mouth went dry as something hot and fierce coiled in the pit of his stomach. Without thinking, eyes hooded, Ichigo leaned forward to her.

Her eyes lifted, and their gazes met and connected. She did not move away; instead, she took a deep breath and licked her lips, her lashes fluttering.

"You…" Her voice barely cut through the haze of strong emotions and sensations fogging his brain. "You smell good." Orihime whispered. "I…"

:

…The _monster_ in her was twisting in delirious anticipation.

His scent was _exquisite._

Scrumptiously delectable that if his scent was something she could put in her mouth and eat, she'll devour it feverishly. If his scent was something she could drink, she'll gulp it down in one go.

With a nervous swallow, she closed her eyes.

It was taking a lot of resolve in her part not to lean in, grab his neck, and take a lungful of his scent before sinking her fangs in his skin.

Oh, one taste, one bite, one drop was enough.

_Just one… _Orihime thought feverishly, mouth watering, chest heaving.

"Is there something wrong?"

With a jerk, she opened her eyes. His face was still close to hers and he was frowning worriedly at her. "I-I'm fine." She answered nervously and decided that it was safer to put distance between them. Her canines were lengthening that she had to grit her teeth to stop it from elongating further. She pulled her hand free from his grip and stood up to approach her cloak hanging from a branch.

_I'm just hungry – that's all. _

There wasno special reason why she was obsessively attracted to his scent, she convinced herself._ I'm just – _She jerked when she felt hands on her shoulders. _His_ hands. _When… when did he_ — she did _not_ sense him move!

"Orihime."

She bit her lip to suppress a moan from escaping her mouth when a delicious shudder convulsed her spine. Her mouth watered anew. The hunger she felt was accompanied by something else, something deliciously carnal.

Swallowing hard, she squeezed her thighs together, mortified at her body's wanton reaction. His scent was driving her crazy. It drugged her and her senses. It made her crave for something other than blood. And _this _scared her.

She was not naïve; she was aware of her body's physical needs but… when was the last time she hungered for intimacy like _this_? It had been too long for her to remember and those rare instances were insignificant compared to the fierce desire she was feeling for him right now.

She was confronted with numerous what-ifs: what would happen if she caught a whiff of his blood, tasted a droplet of it? What if she lost her control? What if she… Her musings came to a halt, her eyes glazing over at those scenarios and her heart pounded in her ears. But she struggled for control. She was different, but she was not a monster. True, there was something in her that desired for his blood, but regardless of her innate bestial nature, she had a rational mind and a conscience.

_I have to leave before I lost control – before I shred him to —_

Orihime turned around to face him to make an excuse to leave. But it was a grave mistake. His scent assaulted her hypersensitive senses in full force, making her dizzy.

"Orihime?"

Wide-eyed in panic, she looked up to his intense amber eyes. Another vicious pang of desire lanced through her. Her desire to be touched _everywhere _was getting stronger and keener that it made her shake all over. Worst of all, the ache between her legs was fast becoming unbearable, causing her control to slip from her fingers.

"Are you alright? You're shaking." Ichigo said while his large hands massaged her arms.

Carefully keeping her lips pressed together to conceal her teeth, Orihime smiled, eyes shining with tears of concealed frustration and embarrassment at being so aroused before him. "I have to go, Kurosaki-kun." Her tone sounded strained as she tried to speak through her elongated canines.

He frowned darkly. "Wait a damn minute." He growled, stopping her from fleeing and taking her cloak, "I have something to ask you. How did you know my name?"

She stared up to him, clenching the skirt of her dress. Opening her mouth, she tried to reply but a faint breeze blew and it carried his scent to her. Unable to stop herself, she inhaled greedily and stared up to him. His expression changed the moment their eyes met. He frowned inquiringly, his eyes holding a spark in them.

"Your eyes," he muttered, looking down at her with his orange hair between his brows. Orihime blinked as though she had woken up from a quick nap. "Your eyes are glowing." Ichigo elaborated.

"…g-glowing?" she repeated uncertainly.

He nodded briskly. "They are. Golden brown, like neon lights."

Eyes widening in understanding, she whirled around quickly and snatched the red cloak from the tree. She spun it around her and draped it over her shoulders. It was large and long, the hem reaching the snowy ground. She started to run off but a hand grabbed her elbow and turned her around.

"Orihime—"

"I _really _have to go, Kurosaki-kun." She insisted, trying to free her arm. But he jerked her up to his chest. Gasping in surprise, she placed her palm on his chest to steady herself. Eyes wide, she felt rather saw him bend his head to whisper in her ear.

"How did you know my name?"

A few loud heartbeats passed. In the snowy woods, they stood against each other. Her red cloak stood out perfectly in the pale background of snow.

Orihime looked up, meeting Ichigo's gaze. It looked like he was trying to read her thoughts through her eyes.

"How did you know mine?" she asked in return softly. He looked taken aback, and then, his eyes darkened. Gently, she freed her self from his grip, excused herself with a quick bow and walked away hurriedly, her cloak billowing behind her.

:

Grimmjow glowered when the door behind him opened and slammed close.

"Shit! Where the fuck did you go?" he snapped, stubbing his cigarette on the wall. "I was looking all over this damn place for you!"

Breathing raggedly, Orihime sat on her bed, her back to him. She heard him approach.

"Where —"

"Please leave me for a moment."

Careful not to show her face to Grimmjow, she threw her red cloak on the floor and slid under the white covers. With her long thick hair spreading over the pillows, she wrapped herself in the thick duvet, curling in a fetal position.

Orihime squeezed her eyes shut.

_This can't go on. _She pressed her nose against her pillow, a futile attempt to block Ichigo's scent that had clung to her._ If this continues, I might lose control of myself and…_ In her mind's eye, she saw Ichigo, bloody, bound, naked and helpless.

She muffled her moan with her pillow. She was too wet, too hungry… _too much_. Determinedly, she clenched her fists to prevent herself from fondling her own breast or touching herself between her legs to alleviate the ache. She was too mortified and prude to do those things; moreover, it will take more than touching herself to assuage her hunger.

"Grimmjow," she whispered breathlessly.

"Yeah?"

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

"I'm… _**hungry.**_"

:

Grimmjow shuddered. He felt something thick, invisible and slimy wrapped itself around his neck. He struggled with the feeling but it was pointless; he fell to his knee, sweating.

"Fuck." He hissed. The air became thick, heavy. It felt like a gigantic serpent had suddenly filled the room. He could picture the serpent in his head – huge with ruby eyes, moving around _so_ slowly, hissing, waiting, flickering its forked tongue before opening its mouth and devouring his head.

Grimmjow shook his head violently to get rid of the image. But the terror brought about by the image was so raw that it disgusted him to admit that he was _afraid. _

"Your Highness," he grunted, eyes narrowed, watching the new development with annoyance. Thick sheets of shadow had begun to rise from the floor and detach from the walls. The shadows struggled, formless at first before twisting together, forming a giant hand that rose above the room without a sound. The fingers elongated into claws and a mark resembling an eye with massive eyeball and intricate eyelashes appeared – it was the Family crest.

"Shit." He growled, getting a bit dizzy from the pressure. "I'll get you two meals, how about that, huh?"

Something of great significance had happened, Grimmjow construed. She was someone rarely affected by basic drives. And her distress had caused her aura to spill all over the room. One of the things that made her especially odd among their kind was that she could perfectly conceal her presence that no one – even her powerful father – could detect her. This attribute of hers was a rarity. However, when in intense hunger and emotional distress, her aura would leak all over the place and give anyone in the vicinity a strange sensation of being crushed by tons of serpents. Grimmjow could count in his one hand the instances wherein she lost herself.

The pressure thickened, provoking another string of curses from Grimmjow.

"Just relax, for fuck's sake!" he snapped.

There was no reply, but the large, ominous shadow retreated, attaching to the walls before crawling back to the darkness as though siphoned. Like a bulb blinking out, the feeling of being choked vanished, and Grimmjow thrust his two arms to break his fall.


	5. a fractured fable

Ichigo waited for Orihime to show up in the clearing the next day but she did not appear.

It annoyed him that something so simple such as not seeing her frustrated him. He locked himself in his room, drew the curtains aside, moved the table over the windows and spent several minutes gazing at the tower in the distance with several blank papers before him. As he stared, an odd feeling crept up over him: he felt like the tower was staring back _at him_.

_Great, how stupid can you get, _Ichigo thought, annoyed.

Hours passed, and finally, he wrote down a single sentence. This uncorked whatever it was he had bottled inside him. Words flowed and he wrote for hours without stopping, immersed in a world of a beautiful woman, of obsession, of solitude and tragic love story. He ignored his protesting stomach, his aching fingers and continued to write.

The last word he wrote was _intrigued _and after that, everything stopped.

Ichigo struggled to continue the flow of words, but it was as if his well of words had suddenly dried up. The pen trembled as his mind struggled. His eyes roved around the table. Papers, papers and more papers were strewn all over the desk. They were filled with black ink, with words and convoluted feelings, phrases and sentences designed to ensnare the mind, fool hearts and twist emotions. He stared at a particular page. The words seemed to float before him.

These were the words of a man clawing his way out of the chasm of obsession.

Feeling defeated, Ichigo grasped his head with both hands.

_What the fuck is _wrong _with me?_

Every time he tried to start a new novel, he would reach a certain point where everything will suddenly stop. His mind would shut down in the middle of a narrative, and he'd feel lost, unhinged as though he was knee-deep in a fleeting moment of madness, trying to recapture his inspiration and imagination. Was Urahara telling the truth? Was it his obsession about _her _that doomed his writing career?

With a groan, he closed his eyes. What did _she_ do to him? She was just a fictional character, a product of his sick and lonely mind. To be dazzled by a figment of imagination, to be enchanted by something he had created… something was truly wrong with him.

And meeting _that _woman did nothing but exacerbate his obsession and maybe, insanity.

:

Outside _Las Anocherer, _the night was still; the trees and leaves were motionless. There were no sounds, only a silence so still, so fragile like a thin sheet of ice.

It was past seven o'clock when Ichigo stepped out of his room into the quiet hallway, strained and at his wit's end. He was also very hungry. He ventured forward and came to an intersection. Faint music floated in the air, a familiar piano lament. Curiously, he followed the trace of that familiar music, his feet leading him through the maze of grandiose halls, rose windows, paintings of landscapes, towers, and sunflowers. He passed a wall of photographs of people with white complexion and sad eyes until he came to the end of a hallway. Two wooden doors stood before him, one of which stood ajar.

Cautiously, he peeked through the gap. Almost instantly, he recognized the back of the figure sitting on the stool, playing the lonely, slow music. Quietly he pushed the door and stepped inside.

The room was rectangular with pale gold walls and velvet curtains. It was furnished with cream sofas, armchairs and several paintings. Vases and urns sparkled in the corners. Unlike the brightly-lit hallway, a dimly lit wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling.

What caught Ichigo's interest, however, was the large portrait looming above the lit fireplace. It was painting of a brown-haired man in impressive white clothes, and a little girl with deep auburn hair. Standing behind the armchair where the little girl sat, the man was smiling slightly, a cold knowing look in his eyes. A curl of brown hair fell between his cold, brown eyes. On the other hand, the little girl was smiling warmly, a blue flower tucked behind her ear. Both of them were pale as paper.

"What are you doing here, Orihime?"

The music stopped abruptly.

Ichigo noticed some uncertainty in her movements as she turned to look at him.

"K-Kurosaki-kun…" She looked stunned, her eyes round. The look vanished, replaced by a smile. "Hi! I… I got curious. This was the biggest building in this area. So I… I went inside and wandered around! I think I got lost in the middle of trying to find my way out and found this room!"

Ichigo recalled the owner of the eatery where he ate telling him that no one was allowed to enter this place.

"I didn't see you this afternoon," he said, changing the topic.

"I… I overslept!" she chirped. "Did you… Did you come looking for me?"

Ichigo met her gaze, his face turning a little soft. "Yeah… Yeah, I did," he admitted quietly. At first, she looked surprised. Then she smiled at him, turned in her seat and played the same music again.

"That's familiar," he commented after a while.

She stopped. "What is?"

"That melody," answered Ichigo.

"Oh…" She glanced at him over her shoulder, smiling. "Do you want to hear it again?"

"Sure."

She heaved a deep sigh, positioned her fingers and began. Behind her, Ichigo tried to place the song; he was sure he had heard it before, he just could not remember where.

And then she started to sing these lines:

_Can you wipe the sadness in my eye?_

_Can you heal my broken wing?_

_Can you…_

She paused, playing a short interlude.

…_hear me?_

:

Ichigo's heart was racing.

_That song… It's—_

"Dinner is ready."

The music stopped abruptly.

Ichigo jumped at the sound of Nanao's crisp voice. He whirled around.

Orihime stood up. "I should go."

Standing in the doorway, the receptionist flinched, stepping sideward to look behind Ichigo with wide eyes. Her expression surprised Ichigo; it was the first time the receptionist had showed an emotion, looking as though she had seen a ghost. Her perfect formal look had cracked. Frowning, he glanced at Orihime who had turned around to face him. She was smiling her usual smile.

"We… We have a guest." Nanao stated quietly when she regained her composure.

Orihime bowed, her long hair swinging forward. "I'm sorry for intruding." Nanao returned the gesture without a word. She excused herself quietly, leaving the two of them inside the room. Orihime started to leave as well.

"Wait."

She stopped in the doorway and turned around.

"Eat dinner with me." Orihime looked surprised at his request. "It's my last night here and I'm tired of staring at nothing while I eat."

She bit her lip, lowering her lashes shyly, before smiling in understanding. "I'd love to join you, Kurosaki-kun."

For the first time in months, Ichigo cracked a real, small smile.

:

"Aren't you going to eat something, Orihime?" asked Ichigo with a frown.

Orihime shook her head, smiling. "I'm fine, Kurosaki-kun! I'm not very hungry but, um… I hope you don't mind me drinking…?" she asked with big, innocent eyes.

Ichigo smirked. "You're not underage, are you?"

She giggled behind her hand. "No, I'm old enough," she said with a smile, gazing off to the side.

The same blond man who attended to him yesterday morning poured Orihime a drink. He put the bottle on its silver bucket full of ice and bowed low before retreating.

The dining hall was grand, gold-themed and deserted. Their only company was a large number of square tables covered in white tablecloths, shiny glassware, and elegant chairs with spindly legs. Dozen chandeliers with hanging crystals lit up the whole place. Under the bright illumination, Orihime's beauty was more pronounced. Ichigo silently appraised her facial features. Her lashes were long and dark. When she lifted her gaze, he saw how those lashes emphasized the shape and color of her eyes.

"Is it true that it is your last night here?" Even her voice was alluring.

He lowered his gaze to his plate of cordon bleu. "Yeah. I have to go back to work."

"Oh." She shifted in her seat and leaned forward, looking curious. "What do you do for a living, Kurosaki-kun?"

He hesitated. "I write stories."

Orihime tilted her head to the side. "What kind of stories do you write?"

"Fables," he replied with a shrug, not sure why he had chosen that word to describe his work.

"For children?"

He glanced to the side. "Let's say, a fable for general audience."

She drank from her wineglass delicately. He vaguely noted the rich redness of her preferred but nameless wine. "Do you write love stories too?" she asked with a small smile.

Ichigo wrinkled his nose and looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes. "Once."

She smiled. "You're not fond of love stories, are you, Kurosaki-kun?"

He shrugged. "I'm not very good in telling love stories."

"What type of love story did you write?"

"The usual," he said, his voice low and distant, "Where two people are doomed to be separated forever."

Orihime's expression was thoughtful while she examined her wine. And then, startling him, she asked, "Have you been in love with someone you could never have?"

A long silence passed between them, not looking at each other. Ichigo was toying with his fork. Orihime was tracing the stem of the wineglass. At the same time, their gazes lifted from their objects of preoccupation, their eyes meeting. Ichigo stopped toying with his fork; Orihime stopped tracing the stem of her wineglass. Something had passed between them the moment their gazes connected.

"I'm not sure if it's love," Ichigo replied quietly, watching her intently, eyes lidded.

"But whoever she is… She is someone you could never have." Her expression was soft, almost sad. Once again, he was confronted with her beauty. He had never seen someone as beautiful and hypnotizing as she. He had met a couple of beautiful ladies, but no one had this kind of effect on him, this staggering impact. This madness. There was Orihime from his book, of course, but _this _was different. Something within him burned with feelings he could not understand. It raced through his veins, burning beneath his skin, squeezing his lungs, making his head spin.

"Yeah, something like that," Ichigo answered in an attempt to distract himself.

She bit her bottom lip. "That's very sad…" Ichigo arched a brow, his bewildered expression causing Orihime to flail in panic. "I-I'm sorry, Kurosaki-kun! I made you uncomfortable with my personal questions, didn't I?" she asked nervously.

"It's okay." He gave her a small smile to reassure her, and her nervousness evaporated completely.

She rubbed the back of her head. "I'm glad! I thought I made you uncomfortable… I can be very silly sometimes and forget my manners." Scratching her cheek, she dropped her eyes. "I'm not only very clumsy with my feet; I'm also careless with my words and questions. I'm sorry again."

"At least I'm not boring you."

"Oh, not at all!" she chirped, shaking her head. "I find Kurosaki-kun very fascinating! I don't have many friends and I have very few acquaintances so whenever I meet someone new, I tend to ask weird questions to get to know them better even though eventually, we'll part ways."

"Do you mind if I asked a few questions?" asked Ichigo.

"You can ask me whatever you want," Orihime answered cheerfully with a sweet smile.

"Where did you hear that song you played and sang?"

She stared at him for a few minutes before poking her chin with her index finger. "I could not remember where I first heard it, but it's something that I have known for a long time. It felt like… It was for _me._" She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Kurosaki-kun, I'm not very good in remembering things. "

He shook his head. "It's okay. It's just familiar."

"It's weird, isn't it? I know that song by heart but I could not remember where I first heard it!"

"Maybe it's not an important memory."

She nodded, reaching for her wine. "Or it's just a distant dream…"

After dinner, they wandered around the first floor, stopping to stare at the paintings and comment about them. When they stopped in front of the portrait of the auburn-haired woman, Ichigo studied Orihime's expression carefully, hoping to catch a flash of recognition. But there was none. Instead, all he saw was wide-eyed curiosity.

"You two look alike." Ichigo told her bluntly when Orihime did not say a word.

Orihime glanced over at him innocently. "We do?"

The frown deepened. "The two of you have the same face, same hair color, same eye color. You two even have the same hairpins!"

She stared at him wordlessly.

"Orihime?" he prompted.

She smiled at him in a vague way, gave the portrait another fleeting look and started to walk down the hallway with a spring in her step. "There are more paintings over there, Kurosaki-kun!" Ichigo frowned but he shook his head and wordlessly followed her.

:

Later that night, a figure in red cloak was standing in a hallway, staring up to a portrait. Firm footsteps were steadily approaching the cloaked figure.

"Forgive us. We were unable to prepare adequately. I was not informed that you planned to dine here tonight."

"It's alright, Ise-san! It was unexpected," the woman in red cloak replied, letting the hood fall on her back to reveal her face.

Nanao straightened up. The two of them were standing in front of a portrait Ichigo had shown to Orihime earlier. "He is a dangerous man," Nanao said quietly. "He was able to sense our presences even though Grimmjow and I have suppressed our auras."

With a deep sigh, Orihime turned to face Nanao. "Have you found out who sent him here?"

"We are still investigating." Orihime frowned thoughtfully. Nanao continued. "I was at a loss when I received the letter. Even more so when at the same day, an hour later, Kurosaki-san arrived. I had to play along with his belief that the palace is a hotel so as to avoid suspicion."

Orihime smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Ise-san. You have helped me a lot. Please continue to investigate. This incident is not random, is it?"

"It's not. Do not worry. We will continue to investigate this incident."

However, there was one thing that troubled Orihime the most. Kurosaki Ichigo can sense and track her while others, even her father, cannot detect her presence. While she could feel his presence because of his delightful scent, Ichigo had managed to catch her off guard on several occasions, something that had never happened before. And he _was human. _At least she thought so.

_Is he one of _them_? If he was, then why was he so surprised when he saw my face as if he it was his first time to see me up close? And _they_ don't call me 'Orihime'…_

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"O-Oh!" Orihime was jerked back to reality upon hearing Nanao's question. "I'm fine! Please don't worry about me!" She smiled. "Thank you, Ise-san! I'll be leaving then!" Orihime moved to wear the hood of her cloak over her head when Nanao spoke.

"Please excuse my boldness."

She turned to the dark-haired woman. "What is it?"

"What are we going to do about the human? Do I have to send an envoy to _Las Noches_?"

Orihime wore the hood over her head, completely shielding her face from Nanao. "You don't have to. It's going to be a long travel to Pyrenees. Don't worry. I'll think of something."

:

She was sitting on the chair beside the window, knees drawn up to her chest as she traced circles on the windowsill. With a sigh, she stopped and said, "Grimmjow."

He stepped out of the shadows. His feet appeared first, the heel of his expensive shoes hitting the stone floor without a sound. Next were his long legs, his torso and the entirety of his white ensemble. He approached her with quiet lethal grace.

"I'm here," he grunted, bending his body slightly forward.

"I need you to do something for me."

"What is it?"

She told him.

:

At ten o'clock in the morning, Ichigo stepped out of _Las Anocherer_, the heavy, wooden doors shutting behind him. He adjusted the collar of his jacket and hoisted his backpack higher in his shoulders.

To be honest, Ichigo felt a nagging ache at the thought of not seeing Orihime again. She was sincere and peculiar, and he felt comfortable around her, which he rarely felt around women. She had a kind smile and gentleness in the way she moved and talked. It was strange that he felt this way towards her, how much he wanted to protect that kindness, to see her happy and safe. He could not deny that he was easily attracted to her, and it was not because she resembled his fictional character; he was truly and completely enamored with her.

He was halfway past the lake when he heard the faint footsteps behind him, which were not there a second ago. It was so abrupt that Ichigo thought he was merely imagining it. It also gave him a start, causing his heartbeat to quicken in adrenaline. He was certain that those footsteps were not there moments ago; he should have heard it without getting startled – the forest was dead silent, after all.

Ichigo stopped. The footsteps stopped. He could feel the furious pound of his heart in his ears. His instincts urged him to run. Instead, he clenched his fists and turned around slowly, a scowl firmly set on his face. The scowl deepened as he recognized the figure standing several feet away from him.

"What do you want?" he grunted, eyes narrowed.

Electric blue eyes glared at him.

Warily, Ichigo watched the man in front of him; he remembered the receptionist calling him Grimmjow. Ashes fell from the man's cigarette. He took another leisure drag. Smoke puffed from between his lips as he exhaled.

"You don't have to know, bastard." The man finally replied with a smirk. He dropped the stick and it fell in front of his shoe. Rolling his right shoulder, he stepped on the cigarette as he advanced.

Ichigo's scowl darkened. "What the hell is your problem?"

In an instant, the smirk was replaced by a murderous glare, his lips curling in a vicious snarl. "You _are_ the fucking problem." Grimmjow took another step and disappeared without a sound.

_What the he—_


End file.
